Cyclewala (The Cyclist)-II

Cyclewala (The Cyclist)-II

Mysticism never ends neither did his stamina. His paddling seemed consistent as the falling evening. His was much of a lad when it comes to imagination and through the wide array of grey clouds, he could leave his eyes wondering for a better bright tomorrow. People had enough of walks, he thought, while he could see them sweating a brow leaving towards their homes in ample distances. But he was creating his own distance, his own story, his own journey and enjoying every speck of moment.

“There’s nothing better than stroking your mind while you stutter to break the bones. Because you don’t need to!”, his mighty thought knew no bound. All of his days has he spent in exploring the unknown, leading to places he’s never been to and living a dream of his native city.

The streetlight struck yellow shadow on the purlieu wall. It was time to get back home.

People seemed overwhelmed with the chaos in the evening. Smiling, sweating faces were abuntant and people from all walks of life shared their presence at the coincidental townhall. His being was one of them and he had a sanguine disposition for reaching home before the supper. It was a festival of some sort tomorrow but the celebration were already evidential terming it only as a silence before the storm. The thunderstorm is to come tomorrow.

The only lead was to ride the wheels on the alternate route. It was thin and shanty, smelly and rocky. But he was ready for it. So, he glanced towards his right, waiting for the chain of vehicles to tumble and space out like a hypersonic shuttle.

While the ultimate night had lend him an ultimate cycling, he couldn’t just but smile and thank for everything he had thought and came true. Little dreams,he talks about, are meant to be lived and admired. Bigger dreams are a fable, which fictional characters seems to live, and those who don’t believe, don’t realise the story behind everything. To the unconscious and ignoring minds, his heart could only wish farewell from his life but he was worried if all leave, what will he do? What will he have to offer to the squeezing emotional connection with squeezing morale of life? Nothing but true affection…

While he was wailing on such thoughts, he saw a spooky rock in the midst of the street. He couldn’t brake. The next moment he saw himself lying on the ample rocks on the street with his bicycle chain sounding an awkward rib. What he had done? How could this happen? Did that little rock had so much of strength to put him off his track? Why didn’t the rock got disposed but his belief did?

He had fallen towards his left. The handle of the bicycle seemed a little worn out. He had a bit of injury on his arm. He got up shrinking the dust on his clothes to none. He started paddling waiting to get back home this time at the earliest.

All of the ride he was forced to revisit in his mind. He was fine all the time imagining people, admiring their beauty, escaping the challenges, blaming the chaotic diaspora during the festivities, and cycling all the way by himself in a rather recreational mind setup. All did this happened, when he lamented what did he had, and or what he was about to get, he thought.